fSnu 
It™* 


Conf  Pam  12mo  #665 


No.  46. 

THE  MUFFLED  DRUM. 

"  We  should  count  Time  by  heart  throbs.     He  most  lives 
Who  thinks  most,  feels  the  noblest,  acts  the  best." 

"Art  is  long,  and  time  is  fleeting, 
.  And  our  hearts  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave." 

So  writes  a  living  poet.  [  know  few  verses  which 
contain,  in  so  short  a  space,  words  and  thoughts  so  sim- 
ple, yet  so  grand — so  solemn,  yet  so  true  ! 

"  The  Muffled  Drum!"  —  "  The  Funeral  March!" 
There  is  no  spectacle  more  imposing  or  impressive  than 
a  Soldier's  Funeral.  The  slow  and  silent  procession — 
the  reversed  arms — the  drums  covered  over  with  crape, 
giving  out  their  deep,  running,  murmuring  sound — re- 
lieved only  at  times  by  a  sharper  and  louder  beat ;  this, 
mingling  with  the  shrill  and  plaintive  notes  of  the  fife, 
as  it  seems  to  speak  a  tale  of  tearful  sorrow  for  the  dead. 
Nothing  else  is  heard  but  the  dull,  heavy,  measured 
tramp  of  the  mourners,  as  they  bear  their  comrade  to 
his  "narrow  home!"  The  coffin,  with  its  sable  cover- 
ing, is  carried  on  their  shoulders.  The  military  cap, 
with  its  plume,  the  musket,  and  sword,  and  bayonet, 
lie  there  in  silent  state!  It  passes  by,  moving  slowly 
and  solemnly  on;  and,  if  the  churchyard  be  not  far  oft, 
you  may,  ere  long,  listen  to  the  "farewell  shots"  dis- 
charged over  the  dead  man's  grave — the  last  record  of 
his  earthly  history;  proclaiming  that  ''dust  has  re- 
lumed to  dust/'   "ashes  to  ashes,"   "earth  to  earth!" 

"The  muffled  drum — the  funeral  march  !"  Reader ! 
Life  is  such.  Nay,  the  world  in  which  we  live  is  made 
up  of  one  vast  funeral  procession  !  Within  your  own 
bosom  there  is  beating  "a  muffled  drum."  As  pulsa- 
tion follows  pulsation  in  your  beating  heart,  it  proclaims, 
"You  are  ttearer  your  grave."  "The  march  of  exist- 
ence will  be  soon  ended." 

There  are  stated  pauses  in  a  soldier's  funeral  proces- 
sion, when  the  music  is  silenced,  and  the  passing  crowd 
can  get  a  fuller  view  of  the  solemn  cortege.  These 
pauses  are  to  allow  those  who  have  been  supporting  the 
coffin  to  be  relieved  by  others,  who  take   their  turn  in 


2  THE    MUFFLED    DRUM. 

carrying  the  bier.  When  the  change  is  made,  once 
more  the  muffled  drums  give  out  their  funeral  beat,  and 
the  procession  is  again  heard  in  motion. 

And  are  there  no  similar  pauses  and  changes  in  life's 
onward  funeral  march?  Who  or  what  are  our  bearers 
10  the  grave?  Are  they  not  the  revolving  seasons? 
We  are  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  Time  —  days,  and 
weeks,  and  months,  and  years.  Every  Neiv  Year, 
especially,  seems  to  arrest  the  procession-  to  hush  the 
music,  and  call  on  the  thoughtless  crowd  and  the 
thoughtless  heart  to  listen.  My  friend  !  this  vast  world- 
procession,  in  which  you  and  I  bear  a  part,  has  reached 
a  new  pausing-place.  The  Old  Year  is  to  be  released 
from  its  burden,  a  Neiv  Year  is  to  take  its  place. 

As  the  drums  are  silent,  and  the  cortege  for  a  moment 
comes  to  a  stand,  Jet  us  avail  ourselves  of  the  solemn 
stillness  to  make  a  few  seasonable  reflections. 

Recall  for  a  moment  the  simplest  and  plainest,  but, 
alas,  the  most  forgotten  of  all  truths,  that  you  are  on  a 
u march  to  the  grave!" — "  It  is  appointed  unto  all  men 
once  to  die  !" 

Think  of  the  many  stout  and  brave  hearts  in  this 
procession  of  life  which  have  beat  since  the  beginning 
of  the  world.     Where  are  they  now?     AJ1— all  in  the 

GRAVE  ! 

Solomon  was  the  wisest  man  that  ever  lived:  but  all 
his  wisdom  could  not  preserve  him  from — the  grave  ! 

Croesus  was  the  richest  man  that  ever  lived;  but  all 
his    gold    could    not    purchase    exemption    from — the 

GRAVE ! 

Alexander  was  one  of  the  greatest  warriors  that  ever 
lived.  He  could  weep  that  he  had  no  more  worlds  to 
conquer;  but  in  the  very  world  he  had  conquered,  he 
found — his  grave  ! 

Methuselah  was  the  oldest  man  that  ever  lived.  Life's 
march  was  longer  to  him  than  any  other;  but  it  was  a 
funeral  procession  after  all :  it  ended  in — the  grave  ! 

Young  and  old,  rich  and  poor,  savage  and  civilized, 
warrior  and  statesman,  monarch  and  peasant,  and  beg- 
gar;  whether  it  be  the  path  of  poverty  or  the  "path  of 
glory,"  it  "  leads  but  to — the  grave  !" 

Aye,  and  every  moment  is  bringing  you  nearer !  since 
you  began  to  read  this  little  book,  the  "  muffled  drum" 


I 
THE    MUFFLED    DRUM.  3 

has  been  beating  fast — the  procession  has  been  moving — 
with  some  the  grave  may  be  in. sight ! 

But  it  is  not  on  the  certainty  of  death  I  want  to  dwell. 
This  of  itself  would  do  little  good.  While  the  proces- 
sion has  stopped,  I  should  like  to  address  to  you  a  few- 
words  of  solemn  counsel.  It  may  be  the  last  I  can  give, 
or  the  last  you  can  receive.  Your  grave  or  mine  may 
be  reached  ere  the  cortege  again  passes. 

I  shall  begin  what  I  am  going  to  say  with  another 
verse,  which  occurs  in  the  same  beautiful  piece  of  poetry 
from  which  I  have  already  quoted  : 

"  Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest. 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal  ; 
'  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest,' 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul!" 

Solemn  truths  !  Would  that  the  u  march  of  exist- 
ence" were  always  set  to  such  music  !  Would  that  our 
hearts  and  affections  would  always  beat  time  to  these 
monitory  words  !  The  body's  earthly  history  is  soon 
and  easily  told.  A  single  line  here  reads  it;  a  word 
does  so  —  dust.  But  the  soul's  history  is  not  so  soon 
nor  so  easily  "spoken."     Its  "lifetime"  is  eternity! 

Do  you  ask  what  is  spoken  of  the  soul  ?  Let  me 
answer  this  in  the  words  of  no  earthly  writer — let  me 
give  you  a  reply  in  the  words  of  the  Great  God  him- 
self: 

This  is  spoken  of  the  soul  :  "  The  soul  that  sinneth, 
it  shall  die  !"     Ezek.  xviii,  20. 

This  is  spoken  of  the  soul :  "  Whatsoever  a  man  sow- 
eth,  that  shall  he  also  reap.'*     Gal.  vi,  7. 

This  is  spoken  of  the  soul  :  "  Incline  your  ear,  and 
come  unto  me:  hear,  and  your  soul  shall  live!"  Isa. 
lv,  3 

This  is  spoken  of  the  soul:  "What  is  a  man  profited, 
if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world  and  Jose  his  own  soul  V 
Matt,  xvi,  26 

This  is  spoken  of  the  soul:  "  How  shall  we  escape,  if 
we  neglect  so  great  salvation  V      Heb.  ii,  3. 

This  is  spoken  of  the  soul  :  "  Whatsoever  thy  hand 
findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy  might ;  for  there  is  no  work, 
nor  device,  nor  knowledge,  nor  wisdom,  in  the  grave 
whither  thou  goest."     Eccles.  ix,  10. 

You   may   be  ready  to  say,  in   looking   back   on    the 


4  „  THE    MUFFLED    DRUM. 

past,  "I  have  not  been  considering"  these  solemn  aver- 
ments. I  have  been  trifling-  away  my  soul's  best  inter- 
ests. I  have  been  forgetful  that  every  beat  of  this 
heart  within  me  is  bringing  me  nearer  eternity.  I 
have  not  been  prizing  my  golden  moments.  I  have 
been  in  reality  and  earnest  about  everything  but  'the 
one  thing  needful/  I  have  been  taken  up  with  the 
trappings  in  life's  procession  —  its  pomp  and  pageant- 
ry— but  I  have  seldom  seriously  pondered  the  thought, 
'  When  this  march  of  Time  is  done,  shall  I  be  prepared 
to  meet  my  God  V  " 

Reader  !  I  would  like  you  to  pause  and  think  of  these 
things.  Surely,  your  present  is,  or  ought  to  be,  a  search- 
ing season.  It  should  not  pass  without  its  solemn 
resolutions.  There  are  many  who  are  in  the  habit  of 
beginning  the  year  with  a  motto  for  their  guidance  and 
encouragement  throughout  its  course.  You  cannot  do 
better  than  take  as  yours  the  first  line  of  the  scriptural 
and  practical  words  I  have  just  quoted  :  **  LiFE  is  real, 

LIFE  IS  EARNEST." 

Inquire,  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  with  Eternity  before 
you,  how  you  can  best  make  existence  a  "  real"  and 
"  earnest"    matter. 

1.  Make  u  real"  work  of  fleeing  to  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
as  your  Saviour.  This  lies  at  the  foundation  of  all. 
44  Am  I  personally  and  savingly  interested  in  the 
finished  work  of  Jesus  ?  Am  I  at  peace  with  God? 
Can  I  look  up  to  the  Great  Being,  who  is  soon  to  be  my 
judge,  and  call  Him  'my  Father?'  Have  I  come, 'just 
as  I  am/  a  sinner,  and  the  '  chief  of  sinners,'  to  the  blood 
of  atonement,  and  have  I  heard  Him  saying  unto  me, 
'  Thy  sins  are  all  forgiven  thee  V  "  Oh  !  my  friend, 
make  real  work,  and  sure  work  of  this.  It  is  no  matter 
to  be  trifled  with.  It  is  no  question  of  indifference.  In 
Jesus  you  are  safe — without  Jesus  you  perish!  "  neither 
is  there  salvation  in  any  other."  You  have  been  mov- 
ing on  in  this  life-procession.  1  ask,  Have  you  met 
Him  on  the  way,  and  lias  He  addressed  you  in  words 
which  He  spake  in  the  midst  of  another  funeral  crowd 
when  he  was  on  earth,  "  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the 
life;  he  that  liveth  and  believeth  on  me,  shall  never 
die." 

2.  Make  "real"  work  in  hating  sin.     Sin,  and  all  sin, 


THE    MUFFLED    DRUM. 


and  your  own  besetting  sin,  must  be  crucified.  If  you 
wish  to  have  a  '<  happy  New  Year"—  be  holy.  Has  not 
the  indulgence  of  known  sin  been  the  great  cause  and 
secret  of  past  twhappiness  ?  Bring  out  this  Dao-on 
whatever  it  may  be,  from  the  altar  "of  your  heartland 
break  it  in  a  thousand  pieces  before  the  ark  of  God  I 
rum  the  precept  into  a  resolution:  "Sin  shall  no 
longer  have  dominion  over  me."  Riches  may  be  poured 
this  year  into  your  lap;  but  I  am  bold  to  say  that  thou- 
sands of  gold  and  silver  will  not,  cannot',  make  you 
happy,  ,f  you  will  ruin  your  peace  by  continuing  in 
"making    shipwreck    of    faith    and    a    good    con- 


sin 
science. 


3.    Make  «  real"  work  in  doing  God's  will.     Life  ought 
to    be  "real"   ,n   nothing  so   much  as   in   serving  God. 
lhis    is  the  great  end   for  which   being  and   existence 
were  given  us      Ask,  with  inquiring  sincerity,  the  ques- 
tion, "Lord,  what  wilt  thou  have  me  to  do?"    Commence 
this  life-earnest  work  with  your  own  heart.      Strive    by 
the  help  of  God's  grace  and  Spirit,  to  get  it  made  holier 
and    better     more    sin-hating,   and    Saviour-loving    and 
heaven-seeking.      If  you   have,  in   past  years,  been    in- 
dulging   in    any    angry    passions,    or   evil    tempers,  or 
unholy   affections,    seek    this   year  to  get   the   better  of 
them.      If  you  have   been   unkind  and    unamiable,  and 
jealous,  and  envious,  seek  to  get  these   «  roots  of  bitter 
ness     cut  down       It   is  the  saying  of  a  great  man,  on 
whom  the  grave  has  but  lately  closed,  "The  great  busi- 
ness of  life  is  to  please  God."-     For  this  purpose,  begin 
and  end  each  day  with  prayer.    Let  it  leaven  and  bright- 
en, let  it  sanctify  and  sweeten  all  the  day's  work.     Make 
it  not  a  duty,  but  a  privilege.     Go  always  to  your  knees 
wmwhe  earnest  feeling,   "I  want  to  be   better  and  ho- 
ler.       Set  out  on  each  day  with  the  desire  to  do  some- 
thing for  God  before  you  end  it ! 

4.  Make  «  real''  work  in  doing  what  good  you  can  for 
others.  As  a  Christian,  you  are  a  member  of  a  «  Royal 
priesthood."  There  is  some  assigned  work  for  you  in 
God  s  temple.  Whatever  your  rank,  or  station,  or  cir- 
cumstances, you  may,  in  some  humble  way,  be  of  ser- 
vice to  your  fellow-men.     You  ought  not  to  live  to  your- 


*  Arnold. 


6  THE    MUFFLED    DRUM.  • 

self,  or  to  die  to  yourself  You  must  not  be  a  cypher  in 
the  world,  or  like  the  men  of  Meroz,  "  doing  nothing" 
There  is,  as  in  the  rebuilding  of  the  temple  of  old,  "  to 
every  man  his  work."  You  can  do  something-  by  your 
money,  or  by  your  influence,  or  by  your  words,  or  by 
your  prayers;  or,  if  in  no  other  way,  you  can  do  more 
than  all  by  your  example.  A  holy  life  is  a  living  ser- 
mon— no  preacher  is  half  so  impressive.  The  talk  about 
God  has  no  eloquence  to  be  compared  to  the  walk  with 
God. 

5.  Make  u  real""  work  in  living  as  if  this  hour  were  to 
be  your  last. 

It  may  be  so.  You  cannot  tell.  Many  hearts,  as 
"stout  and  brave"  as  yours,  at  the  beginning  of  that 
year  which  is  now  hastening  along,  little  dreamt  that 
ere  its  close  their  "  funeral  march"  would  be  over,  and 
the  words  would  be  pronounced  over  the  grave-sods  of 
the  churchyard — "  Dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  thou 
shalt  return  !" 

This,  at  all  events,  we  do  know,  that,  be  your  life  long 
or  short,  you  cannot  better  begin  to  serve  God  than  now. 
The  longest  life  is  short  enough  to  prepare  for  eternity. 
Ah,  may  we  not  affirm  that,  when  the  hour  of  death  does 
come,  this  will  be  one  among  the  many  other  of  its  say- 
ings— "  Would  that  I  had  made  life  more  '  real'  and  more 
1  earnest!' — that  I  had  listened  to  the  solemn  beat  of  the 
muffled  monitor  within  me,  as  it  proclaimed  during  many 
neglected  years,  that  time  was  wasting  and  eternity  was 
hasting!" 

Flee  to  Jesus  now,  as  your  only  Saviour.  Get  your 
guilty  heart  sprinkled  with  His  blood,  and  your  naked 
soul  covered  with  His  righteousness  !  Make  the  aim 
of  existence  a  holy  conformity  to  His  will.  Whatever 
your  station  in  life  is — whatever  your  age  and  character, 
and  business,  and  occupation,  seek  thus  to  reason  :  "In 
this  condition  1  can  honor  my  God  and  serve  and  glorify 
Him:  He  has  placed  me  here:  and  it  is  His  wish  that 
in  this  I  should   '  walk  so  as  to  please  Him.'  " 

Reader!  if  such  be  the  case,  you  have  a  "happy  life 
and  death  year"  before  you.  The  procession  may 
again  move  on;  but  it  is  not  a  'funeral  one,"  with  the 
emblems  of  sadness  and  gloom.  True,  you  are  march- 
ing to  "  [he  grave;"  but  being  at  peace  with  God,  the 


THE    MUFFLED    DRUM. 


funeral  notes  are  changed  into  joyful  ones  :  "  Oh, 
death,  where  is  thy  sting  !  Oh,  grave,  where  is  thy  vic- 
tory ?"  <*  Thanks  be  to  God  who  giveth  us  the  victory 
through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ "" 


Ml 


THE  PULSE. 

"  What  art  thou  ?  mysterious  beating:, 
Still  thy  little  strokes  repeating:. 
Night  by  night,  and  clay  by  day. 
Fluttering  with  perpetual  play 
Through  the  arteries,  when  the  veins 
Thrill  with  joy  or  throb  with  pains; 
Striking  measured  signals  now — 
Silent  movement! — What  art  thou? 

'"Moments  were  to  me  confided, 
Still  to  count  them  as  they  glided  ; 
From  the  Maker  of  thy  frame 
First  my  living  impulse  came.' 
Thou,  the  Dial  of  His  power, 
Wilt  thou  never  strike  the  hour  ? 
'As  for  me,  I  still  must  play 
Till  I  number  out  the  day. 

4  '  And  that  day  is  fast  declining, 
Soon  the  sun  withdraws  his  shining; 
Time  departs  on  rapid  wing. 
Night,  disease  and  death  to  bring; 
Then  I  rest — my  work  is  done, 
And  the  round  of  life  is  run  ; 
But,  till  then,  I  make  no  stay — 
Press  me  not — away,  away!' 

1  What  is  this  upon  me  stealing? 
Strange  variety  of  feeling! 
Icy  coldness!  then,  by  turns. 
Fevered  touch,  like  fire  that  burns, 
Hurrying  now  with  headlong  force — 
Slaying  now  my  languid  course  ? 
'T  is  the  sign  by  Nature  given, 
Answering  to  the  call  of  Heaven. 

'Mark,  then,  mark  the  faint  vibration, 
Hastening  to  its  termination  ! 
Slowly,  slowly  turns  the  wheel, 
While  for  me  thy  fingers  feel. 
Soon  my  duty  will  be  o'er, 
And  I  meet  the  touch  no  more. 
Trifler  !  wilt  thou  yet  delay? 
Warning  take — away,  away!" 


THE    MUFFLED    DRUM. 


THE  HOURS. 

The  hours  are  viewless  angels, 

That  still  go  gliding  by, 
And  bear  each  minute's  record  up 

To  Him  who  sits  on  high. 

And  we  who  walk  among  them, 

As  one  by  one  departs, 
See  not  that  they  are  hovering 

For  ever  round  our  hearts. 

Like  summer  bees  that  hover 

Around  the  idle  flowers, 
They  gather  every  act  and  thought, 

Those  viewless  angel-hours. 

The  poison  or  the  nectar 

The  heart's  deep  flower-cups  yield  ; 
A  sample  still  they  gather  swift, 

And  leave  us  in  the  field. 

And  some  flit  by  on  pinions 

Of  joyous  gold  and  blue, 
And  some  flag  on  with  drooping  wings 

Of  sorrow's  darker  hue. 

But  still  they  steal  the  record, 

And  bear  it  far  away ; 
Their  mission-flight,  by  day  or  night, 

No  magic  power  can  stay. 

And  as  we  spend  each  minute 
Which  God  to  us  hath  given, 

The  deeds  are  known  before  His  throne, 
The  tale  is  told  in  heaven. 

These  bee-like  hours  we  see  not, 
Nor  hear  their  noiseless  wings  ; 

"We  only  feel  too  oft  when  flown, 
That  they  have  left  their  stings. 

So  teach  me,  heavenly  Father, 

To  meet  each  flying  hour, 
That  as  they  go  they  may  not  show 

My  heart  a  poison-flower. 

So,  when  death  brings  its  shadows, 

The  hours  that  linger  last 
Shall  bear  my  hopes  on  angel's  wings, 

Unfetter'd  by  the  past. 


uSO  TEACH  US  TO  NUMBER  OUR   DAYS,  THAT  WE  MAY  APPLY 
OUR  HEARTS  UNTO  WISDOM." 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  SOUTH  CAROLINA  TRACT  SOCIETY. 

Printed  by  EHtm«  &  Cdgtrwbli,  KTo.  3  Br***d  rtteot,  Cfeartartcm,  9.  0. 


Hollinger  Corp. 
pH8.5 


